Lemon Drizzle
by HedgieX
Summary: They had a lot in common: both thought of Hogwarts as home, both would die before they'd let anything happen to Harry, both were in far too deep to back out now. They shared a love of lemon drizzle cake as well, of course. What if, against all the odds, Dumbledore and McGonagall fell in love?
1. Chapter 1

**They had a lot in common: both thought of Hogwarts as home, both would die before they'd let anything happen to Harry, both were in far too deep to back out now. They shared a love of lemon drizzle cake as well, of course. What if, against all the odds, Dumbledore and McGonagall fell in love?**

**Lemon Drizzle**

Dumbledore had a hard time getting any sense out of McGonagall at all.

She sat opposite him at his desk now, snivelling into her tea, the occasional tear escaping her thick eyelashes and splashing down onto her gown. It felt strange, seeing someone he'd always associated with being so strong break down in front of him.

He'd tried to distract himself by catching up on his mail whilst he waited for her to regain control, but her soft snuffles made it impossible for him to focus. Eventually he stood up and manoeuvred himself around the desk so that he stood beside her.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He crouched down, and as he did so it occurred to him that his knees were stiff and his back aching. "We're getting older, Minerva."

He meant it as a throwaway remark, but her tears seemed to fall harder, "All of this experience and I still– I still didn't manage to– so stupid of me."

"I don't quite understand what happened."

Strands of her smoky hair fell down over her face, shadowing her eyes. She looked so forlorn that he reached up and took her hand in his; her fingers were surprisingly small, they felt as though they might snap if she clenched them too tightly.

"This isn't like you," he murmured.

He'd been enjoying a large helping of lemon drizzle cake when she'd stumbled into his office; he'd hidden the cake away in a desk drawer, afraid she'd give him a lecture on his diet, but instead she'd sunk down into the seat he offered to her, and begun to cry as soon as she tried to speak. He wondered if he could retrieve the cake now, or if that would seem rude.

"Potter– he's in the hospital wing."

"Harry?" Dumbledore was on his feet again instantaneously, pulling his gown more tightly around him, preparing to leave the office, "Is it serious?"

"His arm was crushed."

Dumbledore resisted the urge to smile. "But Madame Pomfrey will have that fixed in a few minutes, surely?"

"Ron says he's still–" she shook her head, "Still a bit sore."

"_Minerva_. What's wrong?"

She ran the hand he hadn't held through her hair and streaked it with dried blood, then lowered it and stared like she hadn't seen blood before. "It's from– from Potter's arm. You're right, Albus, we're getting old. We're getting destructible."

The door rattled as someone knocked. Dumbledore thought he could really do without this now; he needed to get to the bottom of whatever was wrong with McGonagall. If it had been Sybil Trelawney who'd turned up at his office sobbing, he wouldn't have been too surprised, but seeing McGonagall emotional was almost as unsettling as seeing Snape smile.

They knocked again. Dumbledore leant heavily back against his desk beside McGonagall. "Come in."

"Sorry, Professor, we were just–" Harry began, faltering as he opened the door wider and noticed McGonagall, "Professor?"

"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore gestured to the seats lined up around the outside of the office, and Harry sat down, closely followed by his two closest partners in crime. "Professor McGonagall was just telling me about your latest exploits, although we haven't got to the details yet. Perhaps you would fill me in."

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance, about as shocked at the tears on McGonagall's face as Dumbledore had been.

"Just a spell. It went a bit wrong."

"It was my fault, Professor," Hermione told him shamefacedly, "Something Professor Snape told us about, although he probably didn't mean to tell us; there was a bit of a complication when I tried it out on Harry, his arm–"

Ron coughed, "But it's all sorted now."

"I haven't finished explaining, Ron."

Dumbledore smiled at the familiarity between the three of them, the way Ron was always exasperated at Hermione's long-winded explanations, the way they all stuck up for each other.

"And, if you don't mind my asking, how exactly did Professor McGonagall come to be involved in this?"

"She found us in the corridor," Hermione explained, "When we were taking Harry up to the hospital wing."

"I'm sorry if I'm being slow–"

Harry smirked, "Oh, you're never slow, Professor."

"Thank you, Harry. I still don't understand why you're upset, Minerva."

She'd stopped crying, perhaps because she was ashamed to have let down her guard in front of students – although McGonagall had always had a soft spot for Harry Potter and his friends behind the gruffness – or perhaps because she was soothed by Hermione and Ron bickering.

"Professor McGonagall tried to, um," Hermione mumbled, like she was confessing to another wrongdoing, "She tried to help Harry, but the spell didn't work."

"Anyway," Harry said, standing up quickly, "I just came to tell you lemon drizzle cake was on the menu for tonight, so we'll see you later."

As the trio left the office and pulled the door shut behind them, Dumbledore clearly heard Ron muttering 'That was _not _what we went to tell him'. Even McGonagall managed a smile at that.

"No harm done, was there?"

She shook her head. "This must seem like such a gross overreaction to you, Albus, but I just feel so old."

"As do I, but one must learn to smile about such things."

He squeezed her shoulder, and she leant slightly into him, her soft hair brushing his knuckles. It was so unlike McGonagall that he smiled again, wondering if Snape had concocted a love potion and put it in her tea to amuse himself. Although comforting a friend hardly counted as love, did it? It was just a long, long time since he'd felt a woman's hand in his.

"I shouldn't have made that mistake."

"How would we learn if we didn't make mistakes?" he asked her softly, "Sometimes it happens, Minerva."

"How can I be trusted to protect the boy when I can't even perform the simplest of spells? Is it fair to him, to risk that?"

"If you can't protect Harry, nobody can."

"I appreciate your confidence."

It was funny, how it happened. This morning, McGonagall had been nothing more than a friend, and now Dumbledore wanted nothing more than to take her bloodied hand and wipe it clean, and then to wipe away her tears too, and to hold her in his arms until she knew that growing older didn't need to be something they feared.

"Kind of Potter and co. to inform us of the menu, wasn't it?" McGonagall murmured, her head still against his hand, "I've always been partial to a slice of lemon drizzle cake."

"Well, that is a happy coincidence."

He reached down and took the plate from his desk drawer. There was only one fork, and he didn't want the cake contaminated with Potter's blood, however precious it may be, so he dragged a chair up beside her and fed her mouthfuls in between his own, and she seemed perfectly content with that.

XxXxX

**This is my first Harry Potter fanfiction, so please review and tell me what you thought. There'll probably be more chapters if anyone is interested! I know McGonagall is OOC but since that's kind of the point of the story, I hope nobody minds too much x**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your lovely reviews x**

McGonagall, when she woke up the following morning, wondered how long it would be possible for her to avoid Dumbledore. She sat on her bed and straightened the collar of her gown, remembering the way his fingers had brushed her lips as he'd fed her forkfuls of crumbly cake. She'd felt dazed, shocked by how close she was to him when she hadn't been close to anyone in a long time. She hadn't really noticed her loneliness before last night, but now she craved the touch of someone else. She wanted Dumbledore to hold her.

Of course, she knew as well that last night had been a mistake; it wasn't that anything had happened, but the way both of them had considered something happening was wrong. They were compromising Potter's safety if they were distracted by one another. The shame burned her when she thought about the way she'd cried to Dumbledore about her stupid, selfish woes. He'd comforted her only out of pity, because he was kind.

She thought about pretending she was ill to avoid meeting him in the dining hall or the corridors, but then he'd probably visit her – kindness again – and he was too clever for her to trick into believing she was actually unwell, which would only make her look more cowardly. _You're overthinking this, Minerva. Just hold your head high and pretend last night never happened._

He didn't speak to her at breakfast, for which she was grateful. In fact, he seemed to rush; he took a couple of triangles of toast and ate them dry, then replaced his hat and left the hall without speaking to anyone. She couldn't help noticing that it was slightly off-centre, so that more wisps of his grey hair escaped on the left hand side than the right.

Potter and his friends cornered her as she finished her toast, spread thinly with jam (a treat to herself).

"You alright now, Professor?"

Hermione shot Ron a disapproving glance, "We don't mean to pry, Professor, we just wanted to make sure you were feeling better. Harry's fine, aren't you, Harry?"

Potter looked about as embarrassed as McGonagall felt.

"I'm fine, Weasley, Granger," she nodded at each of them in turn, "Thank you for your concern."

She finished the last mouthful of toast, brushed the crumbs from her lap and left the three students standing by her empty seat as she left the room. She felt slightly guilty for her briskness when they were only trying to be kind, but, as McGonagall had proven, she didn't take kindness very well.

He'd sent an owl to her study. Lazy bugger.

She unrolled the script. The message told her to meet him outside Hagrid's cottage at midday. Was he planning on feeding her to a giant spider or something?

XxXxX

"Do y'mind if I ask what you're doin'?"

Dumbledore looked up to find Hagrid looming over him, a vial of mud-coloured substance in one hand and a clump of ginger hair in the other. He thought he was probably within his rights to ask Hagrid exactly the same question, but instead he smiled as he straightened the rug he was sitting on.

"I'm arranging a picnic."

"A what? Is'at another one of them muggle inventions?" Hagrid wrinkled his nose, "Have y'got food in the box?"

"It's a meal outdoors. A phenomenon in the summer, I hear."

Hagrid flopped onto the rug, oblivious to the fact that he had narrowly avoided squashing the pork pie. "Oh, how kind of y', Professor."

"Actually, Rubeus–"

Dumbledore had come down to Hagrid's cottage because it was reclusive, which meant none of the students would have the opportunity to pry; Dumbledore knew better than anyone that rumours flew faster than Fred and George's fireworks around Hogwarts.

Hagrid's grin slipped into a grimace as he took in the expression on Dumbledore's face. "It's not f' me."

He didn't want to hurt Hagrid. There were a lot of people that Dumbledore wasn't sure whether to trust in this world, himself included at times, but Hagrid was not one of these people. Neither was Minerva.

He leant across, and Hagrid's rough stubble itched his ear as he explained to him in hushed tones what the picnic was in aid of. Hagrid's delight was resumed, his grin even more animated than before.

"I'll go get y' some flowers, Professor."

Once Hagrid had lolloped away into a clearing in the woods (having promised he'd make sure the flowers weren't anything dangerous), Dumbledore laid out the contents of the picnic basket in the centre of the rug. He'd brought dainty sandwiches filled with meats, a punnet of strawberries, some freshly iced biscuits.

Ham and pineapple chunks on sticks, too. This sounded like a disaster waiting to happen to him, but he'd been assured it was another phenomenon for muggles, particularly at parties, and if they could manage to eat sticks without skewering their insides, he was sure he and McGonagall would cope.

And lemon drizzle cake; of course he'd brought that. Two thick slices, dusted with sugar and oozing with bitter filling, wrapped in napkins which were green as McGonagall's eyes.

_A couple of minutes._ Dumbledore wasn't accustomed to feeling nervous, it unsettled him, and so he unscrewed the flask lid and poured two mugs of Butterbeer in preparation for McGonagall arriving. If she didn't come, he'd just have to convince Hagrid it was all a joke.

"Albus?"

He nearly spilled the Butterbeer over his new cloak.

McGonagall went a colour he'd never known human cheeks could possibly be. "You asked– the owl brought– I didn't mean to startle you."

"Would you care to join me?"

She sat down opposite him cross-legged like a child, eyes blazing with something he couldn't quite place. "What is this all in aid of?"

He offered her Butterbeer and she took it; both drank deeply, glad to have something to occupy their hands with. He watched her over the top of his mug. Yesterday, her clothes had been ruffled, her fringe had fallen over her blotchy face as she'd mopped at her tears; now her hair was scraped neatly back and her gown collar was perfectly straight. That softness wasn't here any more, it was like she was denying it even had been.

"Minerva," he said, when he could no longer pretend to be drinking, "Could I interest you in a stick of ham and pineapple? I'm not sure I quite understand how they are to be eaten–"

She reached over and took one, pulled the squares from the stick with her teeth. She laughed when she saw him watching her, looked at him in a way he wanted to call affectionate, but was frightened to.

She shuffled around the rug until she was closer to him; she took another stick and held it just in front of his mouth so that he had to stretch a little to get his teeth around the pineapple. Whatever he had been going to say was forgotten. He'd never thought 'playful' would ever be an adjective he associated with McGonagall.

"Thank you, Albus, for yesterday."

"I did nothing."

She shook her head. "You did a lot."

"I hope you'll excuse me for leaving breakfast without speaking with you. I wanted to prepare this."

"_Oh, to be young, and to feel love's keen sting._"

The corners of her lips played with a smile as she said it, the sarcasm ('sarcastic' definitely suited her) evident in the way she repeated what he'd said once, but the word 'love' caught between them, made them both blush again like teenagers.

"Old yesterday, young today," he muttered. She smiled.

With a furtive glance towards the school, Dumbledore offered his arm to McGonagall, and she shuffled into it so that their bodies were just touching, his fingers resting lightly on the small of her back. He moved to rest his chin on her head, and very nearly head-butted her as Hagrid bounded around the corner waving a bundle of purple and pink flowers.

"Professor, Professor," he grinned, scattering the flowers over the picnic so that they fell into the Butterbeer and became a garland for the sandwiches, "Aw, 'am burstin' wi' pride. I'll be needin' my hanky in a minute."

"Do you want me to explain the meaning of a secret to him," McGonagall asked quietly, "Or will you?"

XxXxX


End file.
